


For the Fleeting Moments

by Lucer



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Alternate Ending, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, M/M, Mizumono fix-it fic?, Murder Family, season finale spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-24
Updated: 2014-05-24
Packaged: 2018-01-26 09:30:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,745
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1683458
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lucer/pseuds/Lucer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which some survive, others don't, and Hannibal surprises Will on more than one occasion.</p>
<p>An alternate Mizumono, a fix-it fic, of sorts.</p>
            </blockquote>





	For the Fleeting Moments

“We couldn’t leave without you.”

The _thump-thump_ of blood pounding in his ears from seeing Abigail shrivels up to a choked silence as he faces him; the man who took everything from him, and the man who gave him back so much more.

When he looks at Hannibal Lecter he sees breath and smoke and the emaciated elk-man, and the love that pours from his mouth like blood. Black knuckles trace down his temple and fingers tangle themselves in the hair behind his ear. He can smell the lives of his friends on Hannibal, and suddenly it comes to him. Every psychiatric file written about him, burning in the fireplace; Jack and Alana, old connections snapped like string; Abigail, his most delicate tea cup mended and almost-like-new. It’s for him. Everything has been for him.

The antlers block his view as Hannibal leans close and whispers, as if to a lover. “You see?”

“Come with us.” Abigail is talking in that serenely exhilarated way of hers, the same way she sounded when she asked him how it felt to kill her father.

His fingers have curled into a fist in Hannibal’s shirt without him noticing. He looks through the blank eyes of the wendigo and sees himself, rising through the carnage and shedding his feathers to reveal oily black skin. Their antlers collide and interlock, and when their lips finally meet it tastes like reincarnation. He can no longer help his friends, for he has risen. For he is no longer the version of himself they need.

Hannibal heads to his bedroom to change. Abigail approaches him and gently pries the Beretta from his hands, flicking the safety back on with a deft agility he has never seen from her.

She smiles at his confusion, “I haven’t been idle these past few months; Hannibal has seen to that.” There’s a spark in her eyes as she puts a hand on his forearm. “Wait until you see it.”

“See-?” The question is barely formed on his lips when she moves away and Hannibal is there again, looking impeccable as always and carrying a travelling case. A warm hand is placed on the small of his back, guiding him to avoid shattered glass and the growing pool of blood seeping from the pantry.

The rain is falling harder than when he’d last been outside. His shoes make pitter-patter splashes against the stairs wet with red water. The drops against his face feel like a release, washing the grime of common man from his skin and exalting him to what he has become.

A God among men. Or a Man among pigs.

His coat is draped back over him, and instead of being drenched in heavy rain it feels lighter than a feather. Hannibal’s hands stay on his shoulders. “You’ll catch a cold.”

As the trio passes he spares a glance down at her, still struggling and gasping on the ground. Her eyes blink weakly open, as if sensing his gaze on her, and she looks at him one more time, pupils blown wide. He wonders if she can see him for what he is, now.

“Come.” Hannibal is standing at the front gates with Abigail a few paces behind him, hand outstretched. Will Graham thinks about Alana Bloom taking her last breath on the granite porch, Jack Crawford bleeding from his jugular between shelves of wine, and steps down onto the path, taking the offered hand as they walk together over the threshold.

* * *

 

It’s the fresh, cold scent of the sun that wakes him.

Will opens his eyes to a solid shoulder under his head and his hand in another’s. Their driver has stopped the car, coming around to open the doors and revealing the blinding white outside. He sits up straight and uses his free hand to rub at his eyes; the flight had been a nearly unbearable cacophony of restlessness and noises in his head that only subsided when Hannibal hands him a glass of whiskey with a little white pill ground up and mixed in. He vaguely remembers the three of them getting through customs and into a spacious black sedan with tinted windows, Hannibal’s hand curling into his hair.

“We’re here, Will.” Abigail has already stepped out of the town car, and as she gestures excitedly for him to follow, he thinks the backdrop of sunlight has thrown a halo onto her head.

It’s not until he feels the gentle push behind him and Hannibal’s murmured “go on” that he places a steadying hand on the car door and lifts himself out of the seat. The sight that greets his eyes is an unfamiliar countryside, with rolling hills covered in a light layer of snow for miles around, a frozen river and the edges of a forest to the south. The car has stopped where a narrow but finely paved road branches off the highway; there’s a little villa sitting at the end of the road, and just as Will sets his eyes on it the front door opens, six little specks bounding down the porch and approaching them fast.

Hannibal has just finished speaking to the driver, and as the car door closes, their eyes meet. “You-?” He asks, hope leaping out of his throat. The other man says nothing, only smiles knowingly.

“Looks like they got here before we did.” Abigail laughs as Winston runs into Will’s outstretched arms, followed closely by the others.

Will looks up from Buster nuzzling his face to see a man walking towards them. “Signorina.” He takes his hat off to Abigail.

She smiles warmly at him, “Thank you for all your help, Antonio.”

Antonio nods at her, then at Will and Hannibal, and gets into the car still parked at the intersection. As it rolls away in a cloud of frost and dust, Hannibal comes to join them on the road; the dogs flock happily to his feet.

He looks down at Will, standing up and brushing snow from his knees. “Welcome home.”

The inside of the house is spacious and bright, with a well-equipped kitchen and the dining room attached making up the entire front entrance. A single door leads to the rest of the house, which Abigail navigates through with well-practiced familiarity.

“I’ve been living here since I left,” she explains, opening various doors down the hallway, “There’s a  park nearby that’s great for hunting boars, I started growing my own vegetable garden in the back, though there’s not much there at the moment.” A door opens to a set of stairs, and she begins to lead them down into the basement, dogs and all. “There’s a city just a few miles away, so getting supplies is easy.”

The dim fluorescent lighting casts everything in a blue-tinted glow as Will sets his eyes on lacquered wood paneling, granite tiled floors, and an expansive chrome countertop that fills almost half the room. One wall is lined with a variety of shotguns and shells, but it’s the centerpiece he’s unable to look away from.

The stag antlers mounted on the wall greet him like an old friend, beckoning him to come closer. The bone feels brittle and smooth beneath his hands, the velvet having been removed. The ends have been sharpened to almost a pinpoint; a little prick produces a bead of blood on the tip of his forefinger.

A hand closes around his, and Will turns to see Hannibal put the bleeding finger to his lips, licking away the drop of blood. The doctor closes his eyes and tips his head a little, the corners of his lips turned upward.

“Abigail,” Hannibal opens his eyes, but he’s looking only at Will. “Would you be so kind as to run to town and procure some ingredients for me? I will write you a list.”

“I’ll get my moped started.” When her hurried footsteps up the stairs dies away, Hannibal finally lets go of his hand and selects a shotgun from the wall. The cold metal weighs like power in his hands as the other man hands it to him.

“And you, my mongoose,” he says, “will hunt us our dinner.” He draws Will close to him, the shotgun lying between their hearts like a connecting piece. “I shall cook us a well-deserved house warming feast.

* * *

 

There is a new deli and bakery, opened a few kilometers outside of Grosseto, that has been the talk of the town. They boast freshly baked grissini, the world’s most tender meat pies and a wild boar prosciutto that melts right off the tongue.

If one travels out of Grosseto by way of the Strada Provinciale Trappola, and follows the winding river Ombrone southwest to the northern border of the Natural Park of Maremma, one will find a little villa just off the main road. There is a man there with strange features and an even stranger name, who has magical hands for kneading the softest dough, curing the sweetest hams. When asked for the secrets behind his decadent meats, the man would only smile and say nothing.

The cook’s companion is a young man who hunts all the meat for the deli from the nearby forest. If one happens upon the place at dusk during the long Tuscan hunting season, he can usually be seen strutting through the grassy fields back toward the house. He would have a shotgun slung over one shoulder, and a bloodied bag over the other, filled with wild boar, elk, or some other catch of the day.

The girl living with them could have been either of the men’s daughter; many have speculated, but none have been told. She’s the most sociable one of the three, making daily trips to Grosseto on a little white moped, delivering goods and picking up new ingredients. Those who know her call her “Tazza”.

In summertime, when heat from the sun would beat down on the hills like a meat tenderizer, the three would go out to spend an afternoon together. The hunter would teach the young girl fly-fishing in the river, and her laughter would ring across the fields, carried east by the sea breeze. The cook would take them camping in the forest, bringing no food with them but coming back with full bellies all the same.

And sometimes, if one is truly fortunate, the two men can be seen strolling through the countryside by moonlight, their hands joined and six barking dogs milling around them.

**Author's Note:**

> Am I "nope"-ing too hard?


End file.
